Rancour lives with me.
With cold stares when I look away.
And he won't leave.

So...
we get to talking each day.

I found him hidden
under old clothes and memories.
Talking about the rain,
that was slicing through the trees.

He seems to like slow music,
And talk of times past,
And how I've led myself away,
And how I'm coming last.

at worst there's hell and fire,
At best a tear and tale,
And drink to drain temptation,
tempt planning not to fail.

He talks some crazy eulogy,
drinking, time and then,
And his voice can draw blood from me,
though he's so softly spoken.

He's lived with me since childhood,
And every year he grows,
And every time I stumble,
He laughs to let me know.

But in me he is a poet,
In him I am disease
until the heat falls from my name,
And he can be released.